“As for this softheaded tolerance toward the muties, you’re going to see some changes made! Keep your mouth shut and string along with us.”
It impressed on him that he was expected to maintain a primary loyalty to the bloc of younger men among the scientists. They were a well-knit organization within an organization and were made up of practical, hard-headed men who were working toward improvement of conditions throughout the Ship, as they saw them. They were well-knit because an apprentice who failed to see things their way did not last long. Either he failed to measure up and soon found himself back in the ranks of the peasants, or, as was more likely, suffered some mishap and wound up in the Converter.
And Hoyland began to see that they were right.
They were realists. The Ship was the Ship. It was a fact, requiring no explanation. As for Jordan—who had ever seen Him, spoken to Him? What was this nebulous Plan of His? The object of life was living. A man was born, lived his life, and then went to the Converter. It was as simple as that, no mystery to it, no sublime Trip and no Centaurus. These romantic stories were simply hangovers from the childhood of the race before men gained the understanding and the courage to look facts in the face.
He ceased bothering his head about astronomy and mystical physics and all the other mass of mythology he had been taught to revere. He was still amused, more or less, by the lines from the Beginning and by all the old stories about Earth—what the Huff was “Earth,” anyhow?—but now realized that such things could be taken seriously only by children and dullards.
Besides, there was work to do. The younger men, while still maintaining the nominal authority of their elders, had plans of their own, the first of which was a systematic extermination of the muties. Beyond that, their intentions were still fluid, but they contemplated making full use of the resources of the Ship, including the upper levels. The young men were able to move ahead with their plans without an open breach with their elders because the older scientists simply did not bother to any great extent with the routine of the Ship. The present Captain had grown so fat that he rarely stirred from his cabin; his aide, one of the young men’s bloc, attended to affairs for him.
Hoyland never laid eyes on the Chief Engineer save once, when he showed up for the purely religious ceremony of manning landing stations.
The project of cleaning out the muties required reconnaissance, of the upper levels to be done systematically. It was in carrying out such scouting that Hugh Hoyland was again ambushed by a mutie.
This mutie was more accurate with his slingshot Hoyland’s companions, forced to retreat by superior numbers, left him for dead.
Joe-Jim Gregory was playing himself a game of checkers. Time was when they had played cards together, but Joe, the head on the right, had suspected Jim, the left-hand member of the team, of cheating. They had quarreled about it, then given it up, for they both learned early in their joint career that two heads on one pair of shoulders must necessarily find ways of getting along together.
Checkers was better. They could both see the board, and disagreement was impossible.
A loud metallic knocking at the door of the compartment interrupted the game. Joe-Jim unsheathed his throwing knife and cradled it, ready for quick use. “Come in!” roared Jim.
The door opened, the one who had knocked backed into the room—the only safe way, as everyone knew, to enter Joe-Jim’s presence. The newcomer was squat and ruggedly powerful, not over four feet in height. The relaxed body of a man hung across one shoulder and was steadied by a hand.
Joe-Jim returned the knife to its sheath. “Put it down, Bobo,” Jim ordered.
“And close the door,” added Joe. “Now what have we got here?”
It was a young man, apparently dead, though no wound appeared on him. Bobo patted a thigh. “Eat ’im?” he said hopefully. Saliva spilled out of his still-opened lips.
“Maybe,” temporized Jim. “Did you kill him?”
Bobo shook his undersized head.
“Good Bobo,” Joe approved. “Where did you hit him?”
“Bobo hit him there.” The microcephalic shoved a broad thumb against the supine figure in the area between the umbilicus and the breastbone.
“Good shot,” Joe approved. “We couldn’t have done better with a knife.”
“Bobo good shot,” the dwarf agreed blandly. “Want see?” He twitched his slingshot invitingly.
“Shut up,” answered Joe, not unkindly. “No, we don’t want to see; we want to make him talk.”
“Bobo fix,” the short one agreed, and started with simple brutality to carry out his purpose.
Joe-Jim slapped him away, and applied other methods, painful but considerably less drastic than those of the dwarf. The younger man jerked and opened his eyes.
“Eat ’im?” repeated Bobo.
“No,” said Joe. “When did you eat last?” inquired Jim.
Bobo shook his head and rubbed his stomach, indicating with graphic pantomime that it had been a long time—too long. Joe-Jim went over to a locker, opened it, and withdrew a haunch of meat. He held it up. Jim smelled it and Joe drew his head away in nosewrinkling disgust. Joe-Jim threw it to Bobo, who snatched it happily out of the air. “Now, get out,” ordered Jim.
Bobo trotted away, closing the door behind him. Joe-Jim turned to the captive and prodded him with his foot. “Speak up,” said Jim. “Who the Huff are you?”
The young man shivered, put a hand to his head, then seemed suddenly to bring his surroundings into focus, for he scrambled to his feet, moving awkwardly against the low weight conditions of this level, and reached for his knife.
It was not at his belt.
Joe-Jim had his own out and brandished it. “Be good and you won’t get hurt. What do they call you?”
The young man wet his lips, and his eyes hurried about the room.
“Speak up,” said Joe.
“Why bother with him?” inquired Jim. “I’d say he was only good for meat. Better call Bobo back.”
“No hurry about that,” Joe answered. “I want to talk to him. What’s your name?”
The prisoner looked again at the knife and muttered, “Hugh Hoyland.”
“That doesn’t tell us much,” Jim commented. “What d’you do? What village do you come from? And what were you doing in mutie country?”
But this time Hoyland was sullen. Even the prick of the knife against his ribs caused him only to bite his lips.
“Shucks,” said Joe, “he’s only a stupid peasant. Let’s drop it.”
